


heartsick/homesick

by nfwmb (earthshaker)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Homesickness, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-12-26 17:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18286724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthshaker/pseuds/nfwmb
Summary: It’s only later though, after he’s made his first flight, transiting in Hong Kong, that he realizes how messed up it is. Minghao has his entire life condensed into 46 kilos of checked luggage, 7 kilos of carry on and a personal item.No immediate family, no friends, nothing else. The only link he has to home is the passport he carries, the way Mandarin comes to his tongue and the Fu Lou Shou and Kwan Yin statues in his luggage. He is overwhelmingly alone.





	heartsick/homesick

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [kpopolymfics2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/kpopolymfics2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  **Epik High – "Home Is Far Away"**  
> [lyrics](https://popgasa.com/2017/10/23/epik-high-ft-oh-hyuk-home-is-far-away-%EB%B9%88%EC%B0%A8/) **|** [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTD9Jysi3_g) **|** [supplementary](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/01/cc/9b/01cc9b705d60a95ac192149a0bdd835a.jpg) \- [prompts](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e0/56/40/e05640e943099af2fde17ac466e9aec7.jpg)
> 
> -
> 
> This fic was written for K-Pop Olymfics 2019 as part of Team Alternate Universe 2. Olymfics is a challenge in which participants write fics based on prompt sets and compete against other teams of writers, organized by genre. Competition winners are chosen by the readers, so please rate this fic using [this survey](https://forms.gle/zDbKShngbPHWkDjE8)!
> 
> -
> 
> i tapped into a deeply personal place while writing this fic, and i'm glad that olymfics gave me the chance to write this. thank yous to andrea, for helping me conceptualize this, as always i am only one brain cell without you. to len & riley, for being my parents; holding my hand and cheering me on even when this was unreadable. my little bird, ash, for validating feelings always. to cee, for the [heartwrenching playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/suburbanfoool/playlist/44MC2LViGOaJKebYG9IgY2?si=U_917JxQScCIU-Wt83hv3w)and to noura, for the [fun playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/swordgirlfriend/playlist/0joknmbYl7WeL4VBT4CqUy?si=ryJV24pQSwCFYVegRyy2tA), i will always trust your tastes in music. while i personally don't see the sexual content in this fic as meriting the explicit tag, i've tagged it as explicit just in case. in addition to that, the sex scene features breathplay, not explicitly enough to warrant tagging it, but i'm warning for it anyway. enjoy!

 loving is a voyage with water and with stars,

with suffocating air and brusque storms of flour:

loving is a battle of lightning bolts,

and two bodies, overcome by one honey.

-  **Pablo Neruda**

 

 

 

Senior year makes itself known way too fast.

One minute Minghao’s celebrating making it out of junior year with minimal breakdowns and preparing for his internship in the city and the next, the new semester is bearing down on him. Much like the fog that shrouds the Bay Area: one-day heavy and everywhere and the next, chased off by the wind. He’s eager to be done with school, chase after his future, even if he is walking into the jaws of a hungry lion. Minghao has a 5-year plan, and a 10-year plan, and a 15-year plan. In 10 years, he sees himself in a house by the beach, with his lover and a dog. Or a cat. He isn’t fussy.

There’s an outline, a fuzzy shadow of who that lover is. Minghao tries hard not to think about who it is. He knows who he wants it to be. 

For the most part, though, summer was amazing. An internship that allowed him to test himself and prove his worth, to learn and show he was just as good outside school. And the various weekend trips to neighboring states. Minghao’s favorite was the three different weekends Seokmin and he spent in national parks: Yosemite and Zion were his favorites, all of it immortalized on rolls of film. Too many pictures of Seokmin’s silhouette in the sun, even more of the nature that surrounded them, pictures of Minghao taken by Seokmin. Stone as old as the earth itself, shaped by the passage of time. Trees that soared into the sky, claiming their space. Not that much different from his city, but different nonetheless.

And that’s the other thing. Minghao has stopped thinking of San Francisco as being _not-home_ . It isn’t quite home, but it’s no longer foreign to him, no longer impenetrable. He will never know it the way he knows Anshan, but he knows where it yields. What to look for. _Where_ to look for it. Knows weather patterns and Muni schedules and hairpin turns.

The first week of class starts, and as Minghao walks to his class hand in hand with Seokmin, another countdown starts ticking down. He has 280 days or something like that: it's easier pretending it's approximate and not absolute. Minghao doesn’t know if he’s staying past graduation and more than that, he doesn’t know if Seokmin’s filled with the same certainty Minghao has.

The silhouette in his dreams becomes fuzzier.

In the present though, he’s sitting across Seokmin with Mingyu and Junhui.

“Think about it this way,” Seokmin says, leaning forward eagerly. Minghao can’t help but mirror him, drawn in by his excitement. “What is it that you’ve always wanted to do for graduation? We’ve watched a million coming of age movies together, I _know_ you want to do something.”

Minghao knows what he wants to do but it feels tacky, almost. There was a point where he wouldn’t have asked for anything, but that was in the past. And with Seokmin grinning at him, thumb rubbing circles against Minghao’s wrist, he can ask.

“I wanna do the PCH with you guys. We can drive to like, Santa Cruz and back, but I wanna do it on PCH.”

Next to him, Mingyu laughs. For a moment Minghao feels slighted until Mingyu nudges his shoulder.

“Let’s do it all the way to San Diego, my mom would love to have you guys over.”

“PCH the whole way?” Junhui asks skeptically, scrunching his nose.

“I mean obviously not,” Seokmin argues. “We have to go on the I-5 at some point, if we’re doing this during spring break. Eomma will kill me if I don’t bring Minghao home again.”

Minghao laughs at that, shooting Seokmin a smile. He smiles back, intertwining his fingers with Minghao’s. The touch is so hot it could melt through the iron of the table.

“Four gay men, one Prius, and a California road trip!” Jun says, cheering.

Next to him, Seokmin is laughing, his head on Junhui’s shoulder. Mingyu’s smiling too, watching Junhui with poorly concealed fondness. When he leaves California, _if_ he leaves California, this is what he wants to remember.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Minghao’s known he’s leaving Anshan since March. It didn’t feel real in March when he received his acceptance letter, it didn’t feel real in April when they booked tickets, one way to San Francisco and it didn’t feel real in May when he finalized his student visa. If he’s being honest, it still doesn’t feel real in August, even though there’s a week left until he leaves and his room looks like it’s been stripped of all its personality.

The three days before he leaves, however, is an entirely different story. Minghao tries to pack his entire closet into two bags and realizes that one: he doesn’t have a suitcase big enough and two: he _cannot_ pack his entire closet into two bags. He has far too many art supplies, 3 different film cameras, assorted paraphernalia he’s collected over the years and at least six pairs of shoes he _needs_ on top of his clothes.

And that’s just Minghao’s things.

The weekend before, when Minghao had visited his grandmother, she’d pressed her Fu Lu Shou figurines into his hands, 6 inches tall and carved out of jade, wishing Minghao luck with a kiss on his forehead. Then there was his other grandmother and her porcelain statue of Kwan Yin. All four of them are wrapped up in too much tissue paper and sandwiched between Minghao’s thick sweaters. He's not sure if it's the weight of their faith that makes them feel heavy. 

His mother is working herself into a different kind of fit, packing his bag with different kind of herbal teas. His father is the one who steps in and tells her she’s doing too much when she tries to pack him tea eggs, Minghao laughing hysterically in the background. He’s a mama’s boy, he would never deny it, dotes on his mother the same way she dotes on him. Would sacrifice everything for her. Dreams of buying her a house one day, the same homage to tradition every first child before him made. She doesn’t pack him tea eggs, but she does handwrite recipes for all of Minghao’s favorite foods, including tea eggs.

It hovers between lucid and murky the night before he leaves. He’s sitting on the sofa between his mother and his father, his mother leaning against him, playing with his hand. There’s a movie playing in front of them but they’re barely paying it any attention. Ever so often one of them remembers something or the other, and Minghao has to remind them it’s packed. It’s okay.

It feels _very much real_ when they’re standing in front of the immigration gates, his mother’s eyes shiny with unshed tears. He feels choked up himself, whispers to her that if _she_ cries, he will cry too. And she does cry. It barely takes a minute for Minghao to follow; his eyes stinging and his cheeks wet. He rarely cries. His father pulls him into the tightest hug, one armed. For a moment, Minghao thinks he isn’t going to let go.

Transiting in Hong Kong, Minghao’s comes to the realization on how messed up it is—packing up your whole life, condensing it, really, into 46 kilos of checked luggage, 7 kilos of carry-on and a personal item. He’s never flown _alone_ before and it’s a weird mix of exciting and terrifying. It feels like gaining freedom and losing something much bigger, all at the same time.

No immediate family, no friends, nothing else. The only link he has to home is the passport he carries, the way Mandarin comes to his tongue and the Fu Lou Shou and Kwan Yin statues in his luggage. He is overwhelmingly alone.

Landing in San Francisco, he realizes he’s not the only one. The immigration line is full of students, with all their hopes and dreams, fumbling through their bags for the various papers required. The tiny girl sitting next to him on the flight must also be here for school because she wrestles with two bags bigger than her at baggage claims.

Minghao steps out of the airport, gets hit with a gust of wind so strong he feels like his face is being stolen and hits the start button on his three years in America.

It takes two weeks before he wishes he had his mother’s tea eggs.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Everyone around Minghao who is from the area tells him it’s the wettest the city has ever been. And by everyone, it’s mostly Junhui, who grew up here. 

“I mean, it gets foggy and drizzly a lot, but two weeks of it? I can’t remember the last time it was like this.”

Anshan gets cold in the winter, rainy sometimes, foggy, but not all three of it together. Like this, it bears down on Minghao, like a reminder he does not belong to the city and will never belong. The sun is rare and infrequent in the first few weeks of the semester, eaten up by the clouds before midday on the most days. It is not the cold that affects Minghao, it’s the lack of sun.

No amount of Junhui giving him broths made by his mother and dragging him out for hotpot changes the fact that Minghao is cold in a place where even food from home can’t touch.

Minghao spends this time moping instead of doing anything productive. For the most part though, the spring semester is easier. He’s still homesick in every way possible, but it’s less insistent. There was a point where it felt like Minghao was walking around with a night hag pressing down on his shoulders at all times of the day, like a constrictor boa was wrapped around his chest. It’s like his shadow now. It’s there, follows him everywhere, but it doesn’t drag him down. Mid-February brings with it more sun, even if the tradeoff is bone-chilling wind.

It’s on one of these days where Minghao wakes up and decides to put a little bit more effort into his outfit. He’s baffled at how Americans seem comfortable showing up in sweatpants and hoodies _everywhere_ but even on his bad days, Minghao still outdresses a good 90% of his class. It’s amazing how putting in effort changes everything, even though his Co-Star notification today says _ask people how they avoid becoming dead inside._

Minghao’s day is good until he decides to swing by the Peets in the library during his break between classes. Fate works in funny ways—fate decides that since the weather isn’t being a bitch today, Minghao’s going to walk straight into someone holding an iced coffee, jogging down the last few steps of the stairs.

“Oh god,” the stranger says, staring at Minghao’s shirt with an expression of abject terror. “Please do not tell me that’s an original Gucci shirt.”

Minghao holds himself back from rolling his eyes, about to retort that he would _never_ own rip-off Gucci before the boy beats him to it.

“Christ, it _is_ original Gucci. Well, fuck,” he continues.

At the very least, it’s iced coffee. Minghao sighs. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’ll wash off.”

“You sure dude? I’m _so_ sorry, I’m super broke or I’d take it to dry cleaning.”

He’s smiling sheepishly at Minghao and Minghao wants to roll his eyes again. It’s been 5 degrees and raining for the past week, frankly, Minghao finds his cheeriness all very annoying. On top of that, he has to go home and change before his next class instead of finding something to eat. He doesn’t miss the way the stranger's eyes drag over Minghao’s frame, his grin stretching wider.

“Can I pay you back in boba and surfing instead?”

Minghao does roll his eyes this time, letting out a little snort. “No boba here comes close to what we get back home.”

Quickly wishes it’s brown sugar milk tea tastes like anything Minghao gets back home; the pearls are always too tough and brown sugar tastes like it's been substituted for corn syrup.

“Oh yeah, I’m from LA and well,” he gestures with his hands, his cup almost flying out of his hand, Minghao cracking a small smile. "I kinda know where the good stuff is here though."

The prospect of surfing though, that’s a new thing. Minghao was never too far from the ocean back home; he took the 3-hour drive to Yingkou faithfully every October to see the red of the suaeda salsa unfurl across the marine park. The waves China gets isn’t really made for surfing either, and while he’s a 10-minute drive from the beach here, he hasn’t been yet.

Minghao’s first instinct is to decline. But then he thinks about how he only has one friend, how his resolution this year was to _make_ more friends, how worried his mother sounds whenever she asks him about friends. He also thinks about his bucket list; Minghao _wants_ to leave America knowing how to surf.

“Learning how to surf would be nice.”

“Great! Gimme your number, I’ll text you.

He recites his number and spells out his name, immediately receiving a text.

_hi, it’s seokmin! :D_

“Minghao, right?” Seokmin says carefully.

He nods.

“I’m running late for class,” Seokmin grins. “But I _will_ text you.”

Minghao mumbles an okay, with low expectations of Seokmin following through, making the quick run to his apartment to change into another shirt for his next class.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Minghao wants to say he becomes friends with Junhui gradually. The reality is that Junhui catches him moping after his US history class, which Junhui TA’s for, and invites him over for dinner. Minghao’s hesitant, but it’s been 10 weeks and counting since someone who wasn’t his parents spoke to him in Mandarin. He didn’t realize a cheaper rent meant alienating himself from the international students that lived together on the same floor. Junhui, on the other hand, lives with his family, Junhui and his younger brother and his parents and his grandparents all under one roof with two cats, a flurry of Mandarin flying between them and this tight little ball Minghao wasn’t aware was lodged in his chest begins to unravel.

Junhui’s mother tuts over how skinny he is, spoons steamed fish and _gai lan_ onto his plate and practically forces rice down his throat, keeps his teacup full the whole time. The first mouthful alone has weeks of pent up loneliness and homesickness dissolving away, the back of Minghao’s eyes aching the way they do when he’s about to cry. So he ducks his head, murmurs his thanks, eats all the food served onto his plate, tamping down the urge to cry.

Xu Minghao doesn’t cry.

David Xu might.

In Junhui’s house, though, he’s not David Xu. He’s Xu Minghao, last name first, shield and sword. And that's how he introduces himself; saying his name in this house doesn't fill him with bitterness, or the ache of something lost. In this house he's Minghao, HaoHao, Junhui even goes as far as introducing him to Fengjun as  _Minghao gege._

So Junhui doesn’t become his friend gradually, no, it’s more like Junhui takes a sledgehammer to Minghao’s walls and Minghao walks out of the Wen household with a friend. One who is touchy and drags him out of his business classes for coffee or to the farmer’s market every Thursday and calls him an old man, but a friend nonetheless. When his mother calls during his Thanksgiving break, Minghao tells her about Junhui and she smiles. For the first time, her face isn’t creased with worry and she sounds relieved.

Junhui doesn’t allow Minghao to mope through their Christmas break either. He sends Minghao a vague itinerary on WeChat—they’re doing two things a week.

“That way,” Junhui says, “you can mope for 60% of the week but have fun with me for the rest of it.”

Minghao bats his shoulder lightly, rolling his eyes. It might be too soon to tell Junhui he’s grateful but he is. The first weekend after the end of their finals, Junhui drags him downtown, where they’ve erected a huge Christmas tree. It’s funny—even during Christmas the city doesn’t feel like a city, isn’t swarming the way Anshan is. They take approximately a hundred pictures with the tree, together and individually, before Junhui decides they _need_ to rent skates and skate at the makeshift rink. Junhui also drags him through the pop-up stores, buying him hot chocolate at the Ghiradelli stand and mulled wine at another one, despite Minghao being underaged.

“Fuck American drinking laws,” Jun says in Mandarin and a group of passerby's laugh. Minghao hides his smile in his scarf.

They make the uphill trek to Chinatown, Minghao’s thighs burning by the time they reach a hole-in-the-wall teahouse, his mouth watering at the scent of char siu baos, almost moaning when he finally bites into one, getting a taste of juicy grilled meat from the first bite. Junhui watches him with bright eyes, popping siu mai into his mouth as fast as the kitchen sends them out, drenching every piece in chili oil.

“Aren’t you glad you came out with me?” he asks, grinning, head tilted to the side.

 _Always,_ Minghao wants to say. Inside he chuckles, pours more tea into Junhui’s cup. “This definitely beats my plans of binge-watching Sabrina.”

Being in Chinatown has Minghao melancholy. It’s hard to put his finger on it—the sights, the smells, the people, all of it triggers his senses for _home._ The clattering sounds of mahjong tiles being scrambled, the lingering scent of both cigarettes and incense, the way people have _no_ regard for traffic rules. But then his feet stumble over the pavement, Junhui gives him instructions and he’s reminded that Chinatown exists in a state of home and not home.

Like Minghao’s looking at everything through a translucent screen, making out impressions of things he knows, but not truly, not fully.

“Why do you use David, Xiao Hao?” Junhui asks later, when they’re getting boba. The store only has five kinds of tea, but Junhui swears by it.

Minghao sucks up way too many pearls, almost choking on them.

“It’s easier,” Minghao says, staring at the ground instead of meeting Junhui’s eyes.

It’s not—David is foreign, doesn’t roll off his tongue easy. Whenever he's asked for his name there's always the internal battle,  _Ming,_ he begins,  _David, sorry_. There’s an ache that could be soothed with his name and he misses it something fierce, but Minghao didn’t realize the cost of giving it away until he did. And now he’s ashamed of that shame.

Junhui isn’t looking at him with pity, and somehow that’s worse. He’s looking at him with understanding and Minghao remembers Junhui is older. Has lived in America all of his life, only spending a handful of summers in Shenzhen. He carries a burden Minghao can’t even begin to grasp at: foreigner here, foreigner at home.

“Sometimes,” Junhui says gently. “Your name is all you have. A new year is coming.”

Junhui is right. Junhui is right about the boba too; it is good.

 

 

🌉

 

 

The first time Seokmin meets Junhui is funny, mostly because he seizes up and becomes distantly polite. At the same time though, he curls up around Minghao, is excessively touchy in a way that Minghao doesn’t usually associate with Seokmin. Seokmin is physically affectionate, yes, but it’s usually Minghao draping himself over Seokmin and not the other way around. It’s only Junhui’s raised eyebrow and smirk that cues him in to what’s happening. 

Minghao wants to knock Seokmin over the head for assuming he’s dating his closest friend because he’s also gay and Chinese. Or at least, Seokmin’s assuming Junhui is competition for Minghao’s attention. The bigger part, though, is the fact that _Seokmin’s assuming Junhui is competition for Minghao’s attention._ The realization makes his ears burn and his throat dry; Seokmin’s social, has connections on campus, a circle of friends outside Minghao but it’s _Minghao_ he’s interested in?

It takes Seokmin bringing Kim Mingyu over to one of their group study sessions for Seokmin to realize that 1) while Junhui is gay, he is very much _not_ interested in Minghao and 2) Junhui is _very much interested_ in Kim Mingyu. Mingyu sort of becomes a permanent addition to their study group: Seokmin practically throws him at Junhui and then spends the rest of his time monopolizing Minghao’s attention.

Most of the time, Minghao doesn’t know how to react. He’s never had anyone flirt with him like this before either; all his past experiences have been fast and harsh and _messy._ Seokmin doesn’t flirt as much as he spills his heart out: the way he glances at Minghao, the way his hand curls on top of Minghao’s on the table. The one time he dragged Minghao to a house party and stayed by Minghao’s side the whole night, tipsy and unfairly handsome, hands tight on Minghao’s waist under his shirt as they grinded on each other on the dance floor.

It’s slow. Dragged out. Fills Minghao with an exquisite kind of desire, simmers low but always present. They continue playing the game.  They’re both lying if they said there’s nothing there. The most animalistic of urges are ground into your DNA, a matter of nature and not nurture and Minghao  _wants, longs for,_ doesn't know how to  _ask._

 

 

🌉

 

 

Seokmin is as persistent as Junhui is when it comes to making friends. He’s also incredibly social, involved with a fraternity and juggling a double major. What amazes Minghao, though, is the way Seokmin goes through every day with a smile on his face. In muggy San Francisco, his smile alone injects sunlight directly into Minghao’s veins. 

The rain persists, but Seokmin is even more stubborn.

“The sun will come out eventually, and I’ll take you to the beach!”

As it turns out, Seokmin’s in one of his business classes. Minghao had just never noticed before because he sits right up the front and Seokmin sits right at the back. When they realize though, they develop a compromise, seated together in the middle of the hall. Having Seokmin in one of his classes is also reassuring because on the days where Minghao can’t drag himself out of bed, Seokmin sends him the notes and vice versa.

Slowly though, gradually, they build up an easy friendship. A movie date here, a coffee hangout there, the occasional homecooked dinner parties Seokmin invites Minghao to, studying together for their economics class. The more time Minghao spends with Seokmin, the more he’s drawn to him. Minghao’s just a planet, and the pull of the sun is too strong for him to resist. 

It's too late when he realizes he's been pulled into orbit by Seokmin. He tries to tamp it down. Tells himself Seokmin’s too handsome, too sweet, too funny to be gay. Probably has someone he’s seeing in his fraternity—one dedicated to _community service,_ a sweet girl he might just settle down with, build the white picket fence American dream around. Kindness oozes out of Seokmin the way the rain pours—unfaltering. Indiscriminate.

He gets caught in the rain all the time. Minghao tells himself that he can’t want Seokmin, even though his heart flutters when Seokmin leans into him, unsteady with the force of his own laughter, even when his heart skips a beat when Seokmin turns the force of his smile onto him. 

 

 

🌉

 

 

_forecast says the suns coming out_

_get ya spf 100 bullshit_

_we r going surfing!_  

Seokmin shows up at his doorstep Sunday morning, two surfboards strapped to his VW Bug, yellow, the same color he fills up Minghao’s life with.

“I wasn’t sure if you had a wetsuit so I borrowed one from a friend who is like, your size,” Seokmin shoves a wetsuit at his chest. “You can like, wear it under your clothes or like, change in one of the public bathrooms.”

He changes at home, pulling his clothes on top of his wetsuit. Seokmin has his wetsuit half on too and Minghao’s trying his hardest not to stare. It’s difficult though; his shorts barely hit midthigh, and the suit clings to him like a second skin. Seokmin's thighs look like they’re sculpted like one of the pillars of the Parthenon, painfully attractive without realizing it, and Minghao’s suffering the consequences.

Minghao has a magnet that pulls him to the ocean, the ache of it amplified the moment the car turned onto the street. Nagging, under his skin, reminding him how close he is as he takes in lungful after lungful of briny air. He hums along to the music Seokmin’s playing; an eclectic mix of artists Minghao doesn’t really recognize, from rap to pop to R&B. And then it shuffles to another song, Seokmin turning the volume up as the song picks up, belting out the lyrics.

“My boyfriend hates me, my mother’s homophobic, I’m stuck in the closet, I’m so claustrophobic,” Seokmin sings. _He has a great voice_ , Minghao thinks. Clear, stable. And then the lyrics register, and Minghao’s ears burn.

“Are you gay?” he asks cautiously, tentatively.

If Seokmin’s in San Francisco, he might be, as stereotypical as it sounds.

“Oh,” Seokmin mumbles out, turning the volume down. Minghao can see his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. The sound of traffic and seagulls wash in from outside. “Yeah, I mean. I thought it was obvious.”

Seokmin laughs nervously.

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Minghao says quietly. “My only other friend here is gay too.”

“Yeah?” Seokmin turns his head to look at Minghao, a small smile on his face. “Are you?”

 _Is he?_ When Minghao was fourteen, he was tackled on the football field. The contact, objectively, lasted for a minute at most, but in 14-year-old Minghao’s head, it lasted through the span of all his lifetimes. Yao Mingming was pretty. Handsome. Had the pinkest lips. All it took was Mingming’s body, wiry with developing muscle, pressed against Minghao’s, legs tangled together, for Minghao to realize something was painfully right and then be overwhelmed with _wrong wrong_ _wrong._ It continued throughout school: while his friends talked about girls and their bodies, how soft they felt when you hugged them, how their curves took away from the sharp angles of men, Minghao was thinking of other things. Of how he didn’t _want_ softness, no, he wanted sharp angles. Sharper words. Broad shoulders. Firm muscle. Jerked off fast and furious to the idea of harsh and rough. Lost his virginity to a man like that too, in the bathroom of a seedy club. _Is he?_

“I am,” he says quietly.

Outside, the waves crash onto the shore. The engine hums. Seokmin doesn’t scream in disgust. Minghao relaxes into his seat.

“Us gays, we got a homing magnet, dude.”

Minghao laughs at that.

They manage to find parking after driving down the endless stretch of road for 20 minutes. The sun comes out, and everyone finds themselves at the beach. It’s like he’s seeing Seokmin in a new light. Or maybe it’s just seeing Seokmin cast in sun, the way he should be. Golden, a promise.

“Zip me up?” Seokmin peels his tank top off and pushes his arms through the sleeves of his wetsuit.

Minghao’s fourteen again, eyes following the knobs of Seokmin’s spine as he drags the zipper up, throat tight and dry. Objectively, Seokmin is handsome. His body alone makes Minghao weep; toned from years of surfing, tanned from years in the sun. Has the sort of boy next door charm that belongs on the red carpet. Lights up any space with his presence. Objectively. He’s not harsh either; broad shoulder and firm muscle, but as pliable as they come. Gives in, the way sands acknowledge the tides. Minghao won’t deny there is strength in that tenderness though, the same way he watches the flex of Seokmin’s hand curled around his pen. Subjectively, Minghao’s been keeping himself at arm’s length just because he didn’t know if he could hope for anything.

Now that hope is there though, it’s dangerous, heady. Not even the icy cold of the Pacific can soothe the fire that it’s sparked because whenever Minghao's being dragged under by the waves, even when he's struggling to breathe, Seokmin pulls him out. 

 

 

🌉

 

 

Minghao feels the jetlag hit him as soon as he steps out of the plane. It’s five in the evening but he’s ready to just faceplant onto the nearest soft, flat surface. Fortunately for him, he doesn’t have to worry about finding his way to campus on his own. Seokmin and Junhui are picking him up at the airport this time, and his heart stills a little. Seokmin. 

Summer was a whirlwind, really. Hesitant FaceTimes at obscene hours of the night because of the fifteen hour time difference. Making Seokmin download WeChat so Minghao could text him whenever his VPN refused to connect to the Wi-Fi. Falling asleep to Seokmin’s voice. And once, very memorably, waking up to a picture of Seokmin shirtless and in boxer-briefs, flexing in the mirror. That had led to an interesting round of texting, both of them tiptoeing around what they wanted.  

As far as Minghao is concerned, they’re dating. Not really in a relationship, but in the limbo in between. The chill that cuts through the moment he steps out the doors however has all his thoughts grinding to a halt, on the lookout for Junhui’s Prius. He pulls his jacket around himself tighter, cursing the cold and his own foolishness. He was accustomed to the weather _before_ he left, but it’s completely different now that he’s spent 3 months in the heat of China’s summer.

San Francisco is fucking _cold_ , and Minghao’s a fool for forgetting.

Luckily enough, Junhui pulls up before Minghao loses the feeling in his body, yelling excitedly as he runs out of his car and throws himself at Minghao. They both almost fall on their asses, saved by Seokmin tugging on the back of Junhui’s hoodie. Junhui babbles into his ear, a stream of excited Mandarin that has homesickness settling into him as fast as a pebble sinks into the ocean. And then Junhui lets him go and Seokmin stands in front of him, smiling brilliantly. Going back to LA for the summer did something for Seokmin; in the dreariness of August, Seokmin is a splash of gold. Stands out vividly, warm, like SoCal’s sun runs in his veins, or like he’s made from it. Minghao’s suddenly struck with shyness—Seokmin in front of him feels like a mirage.

“Stop being a coward,” Junhui says in Mandarin, rolling his eyes.

Seokmin doesn’t wait to pull him into a hug, warm and strong. Minghao inhales the scent of him greedily, surprised when he picks up notes of the cologne he'd bought Seokmin as a very late birthday present, right before he left. 

“I missed you,” he whispers in Minghao’s ear.

“We spoke yesterday,” Minghao says. _I miss you too._

Seokmin laughs. “Yeah. Couldn’t hold you though.”

There’s the easy charm again, has Minghao shoving Seokmin away from him even as Seokmin laughs, big and bright, throwing Minghao’s luggage into the trunk.

46 kilos, and this time, he has tea eggs too. Unless TSA confiscated them, then well, fuck TSA. But like, less emotional baggage. More hope, maybe. Nothing dragging him down, no sense of feeling like he’s left more than half his soul in China. He has all of himself, a good friend, a maybe boyfriend and junior year to look forward to.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Minghao’s heart is lodged in his throat, swollen to twice its size as they step into their apartment. Everywhere he looks he can see proof of him leaving, boxes labeled to be shipped back to China. He wonders if his parents have figured out yet, watching Seokmin and Minghao pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh across them at the table during dinner. They didn’t even start out like that, Minghao was pretty sure they had a platonic distance between them when they first sat down. That distance had closed itself naturally, the way it’s been happening for two years now. Seokmin kicks his shoes off and hugs Minghao from behind, arms wrapped around his stomach, uncharacteristically quiet. 

They both know what tonight means, in the grand scheme of things.

Seokmin is gentle, tentative almost, as he kisses the back of Minghao’s neck.

They shuffle to Minghao’s room like that, Seokmin’s laughter against the back of Minghao neck, his arms wrapped around Minghao’s waist. It’s only in Minghao’s room, bare of most things except for his bed, does he turn around to meet Seokmin’s eyes, holding Seokmin’s face in both his hands as he leans forward to kiss him.

Some things are muscle memory. Minghao knows how to kiss, how to lick, how to press against Seokmin to get him like this—gasping against Minghao’s mouth, one hand tight on his waist, the other tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. It feels dreamy, almost, the way Seokmin pulls away to push Minghao’s sweater off and then peel his own off.

Dreamier still when Seokmin presses him onto the mattress, using his weight to hold Minghao down, grinding his hips against Minghao like he has all the time in the world. Like they aren’t approaching the last days of their countdown. Like if he goes slow enough, their love can outlast the turning of the world.

Minghao isn’t complaining.

He tangles his fingers in Seokmin’s thick hair when he kisses the corner of Minghao’s mouth, moving carefully down, chin, Adam’s apple, dragging his teeth over the side of Minghao’s neck and biting down at the juncture of his throat and shoulder. When Seokmin pulls away, his eyes are bright, his thumb resting on Minghao’s lower lip.

Minghao parts his lips, taking Seokmin’s thumb into his mouth, hyperaware of the way Seokmin’s hips hitch against his, the way his eyes go dark. He’s hard in his boxers, and surrounded by so much love it makes him harder.

“How do you want me?” Seokmin asks, voice low and rough.

“Wanna ride you,” Minghao mumbles.

Their clothes come off fast after that, Minghao on his back, Seokmin between his legs, biting into the soft inside of Minghao’s thigh, sucking a mark into the skin there. Minghao wants to flinch away from the sensation—he’s sensitive there, Seokmin _knows_ that—tugs at Seokmin’s hair, breath catching in his throat when Seokmin pulls his hand away and intertwines their fingers instead.

“Trust me.” Seokmin kisses his knuckles.

“Alright,” Minghao sighs out.

He trusts Seokmin when he takes the head of Minghao’s cock into his mouth, bobbing his head down the length of it. He trusts Seokmin when he starts fingering Minghao open, one, then two, then three fingers, wet and messy and _slow_ , dragging it out until Minghao is biting into his lower lip. Desire can taste like blood. Desire can feel like pain too, sometimes.

But Minghao trusts Seokmin.

He trusts Seokmin when they switch positions, when Minghao sinks down on Seokmin’s cock, gasping breathlessly into his mouth. He trusts Seokmin when he brings Seokmin’s hands to his throat, rolling his hips languidly, gasping out _please_ and _i love you_ and _Seokmin_ , always Seokmin, like all these words are interchangeable. To an extent, they are. Wanting and love will always equate to Seokmin after this. Always. 

Minghao trusts Seokmin before and during, when his thumb presses down tight on the side of Minghao’s throat, restricting his airflow, narrowing his focus to the drag of Seokmin’s cock against his prostate, the way Seokmin’s eyes are trained on his, the way he keeps mumbling praise for Minghao.

It makes him feel hot all over, has him coming with a cry of Seokmin’s name all over his hand, pliant and plastered against Seokmin as he rocks his hips towards his own orgasm, trading messy kisses with Minghao.

The after is good too, Seokmin cleaning Minghao down, ducking down for kisses the whole time, Minghao laughing into his mouth as he climbs under the covers, pulling Minghao close. Minghao hums, kissing the top of Seokmin’s head, his forehead, his nose, his mouth, soft and chaste, one hand cupping his face.

  
“I don’t know if I’ll come back,” Minghao confesses. Seokmin turns his head into Minghao’s touch, lips brushing against Minghao’s palm.  
  
“I know,” Seokmin murmurs. “It’s okay, Hao. This was, _is_ enough.”  
  
Minghao’s throat closes up around the words, Minghao burrowing his face against Seokmin’s neck.  
  
“It’s alright you know. If you don’t wait for me,” he mumbles the words against Seokmin’s throat. "If you move on."  
  
Seokmin’s grip on him tightens imperceptibly, his jaw clenching.  
  
“You too,” Seokmin says almost reluctantly, as if there are hooks in his skin dragging the words out.  
  
He watches the sun rise over the plains of Seokmin’s body, covers thrown aside. They’re both graduating today and it’s something to be proud of. And Minghao is proud, proud of himself for shouldering through everything when he’s halfway across the world, throwing himself into an entirely new education system, doing it with the barest skeleton of a support system. There are other things, though. Reality dawns with the sunrise; as much as they love each other, sometimes you have to put a full stop to things.

Seokmin starts crying the moment they find each other after the ceremony. Continues crying as they move Minghao’s things out. His lips taste like salt, and Minghao learns what love, the kind of love that would follow you to death, _through_ death, tastes like. He has never been loved like this.

It goes on for four days, until finally, _finally,_ Minghao finds himself at the airport with Seokmin, Junhui and Mingyu. SF International has one of the most obscene parking rates in the country, and his friends are there nonetheless. They check-in and his parents walk into the airport security line first, giving him a bit more time with them.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Mingyu says gruffly, pulling him into a one-armed hug.

“I could never. I’ll be posting pictures of my food in China and you’ll still ask me why I didn’t invite you,” Minghao jokes.

Junhui pushes Mingyu out of the way and presses a thick envelope into Minghao. “Didi,” and it’s titular, monumental. He’s always been Minghao, Hao, HaoHao, Xiao Hao, a whole list of nicknames for Junhui, but rarely _didi_. Minghao already feels the tears pricking at the back of his eyes, and it’s not even the hardest goodbye.

“Send me pictures of cats,” is all Junhui says. Minghao nods.

And then he’s standing in front of Seokmin. For a second he pretends everything is normal, hands tight around Seokmin’s waist as he breathes in the scent of his cologne, the way he smells like both the sun and the ocean, the fabric softener they both share cause it’s cheaper to buy in bulk at Costco. In his arms, Seokmin is both soft curves and sharp angles; made for him. Seokmin’s eyes have been red and swollen for days now.

“Crybaby,” Minghao chokes out, Seokmin smiling at him even through his tears.

“You always say I’m pretty when I cry.”

“Not like this,” Minghao thumbs at Seokmin’s tears, kisses his cheeks.

“I love you,” Seokmin breathes out in the scant space between them. Just like the first time he said it, except with more people present. “Always will. You’re taking a part of me back with you to China, Xu Minghao.”

Minghao laughs wetly at that. If he’s taking a part of Seokmin back, then Seokmin will always have all of him. Like, if Minghao died, and they needed to find his soul to bring him back to life, they would find it with Seokmin. Cherished, loved, fulfilled. Today, tomorrow, forever. 

“ _Xie xie,_ ” Minghao says instead. Thank you isn’t enough, not even in Mandarin, not when he’s breaking Seokmin’s heart like this.

There is the weight of a thousand promises lodged in Minghao’s throat as he uncurls Seokmin’s hand from his one last time. Junhui, Seokmin and Mingyu envelop him in a hug, all at once. He’s never felt more at home.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Junhui had to pull out from sending Minghao to the airport but Seokmin steps in, borrowing Mingyu’s car because it has a bigger trunk, showing up at Minghao’s door at 2 a.m. to drop him off at the airport. He helps unload the bags, the wide collar of his shirt exposing the smooth slope of his nape, the sharp dips of his collarbones. Want, persistent, laps at Minghao’s sanity like waves. 

Seokmin envelops him in a tight hug, warm in all the places Minghao is cold.

“Have a safe flight,” Seokmin says, waving as Minghao rolls his bag towards the entrance.

There is a gulf between them. Minghao feels something stretch tight across that distance, feels it when it snaps. He whirls around.

“You know, Lee Seokmin,” he yells. “You’d make a great boyfriend.”

Minghao rushes through the door without looking back, heart thudding in his chest. Sixteen hours later, jetlagged and weary, he has four messages from Seokmin.

_never took you for a person who confesses and runs._

_let me know when you land in china_

_call me when you’re free, actually._

_I like you too, Minghao._

 

 

🌉

 

 

Somewhere between Santa Cruz and Los Angeles, they get stuck in traffic. Minghao refuses to complain, even though he’s turned the volume up all the way on the music to muffle the noises of Junhui and Mingyu making out in the back seat. It’s a traffic hazard, probably, for Seokmin to have one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with Minghao’s over the center console. 

They’d left sometime before noon, taking Highway One off Pacifica from San Francisco, weaving through the coast. Minghao will never stop being in awe of California, of how beautiful it is when you escape the cities. They’d rolled the windows down, breathing lungful after lungful of clean air, blasting music from Junhui’s “Four Gays and a Prius” playlist. There’s an _obscene_ amount of Jolin Tsai and Britney Spears on it.

Between Half Moon Bay and the lighthouse, they stop at one of the beaches, just so Seokmin and Mingyu can catch some waves. It feels ridiculously like a moment out of a teen romcom, Seokmin pushing wet hair out of his face and leaning down to kiss Minghao, tasting like salt, all while Junhui cackles.

“Wow,” Minghao says. “You’re my hot surfer boyfriend, huh?”

Seokmin laughs, shrugging out of his wetsuit. “You’re telling me you left China for this?”

In the late afternoon sun, drowning in all the feelings Seokmin evokes in him, Minghao wants to say yes. _Yes. I would leave for you, if you would wait for me too._ Minghao’s always been a romantic.

“You wish,” Minghao says instead, pulling his shades back into place.

They also get oysters, even though Minghao hates the texture of them. He’s never been above doing things for Instagram though, and the fried calamari they get after makes suffering through oysters worth it.

It’s been a few hours since then, crawling through the I-5. The plan, as it stands, is to make it to Thousand Oaks, where they’ll be staying with Mingyu’s cousin for the night. They head back onto PCH tomorrow, a straight shot all the way down to Santa Monica pier before they head to Seokmin’s.

“You know, it’s not a California road trip if we don’t stop at an In-N-Out,” Mingyu grumbles from the backseat.

Seokmin hums, smiling. Minghao’s sold. He wants the cheesiest, tackiest California road trip for the books.

They find an In-N-Out 20 miles later; the line is so backed up it continues after the traffic light of an intersection. Seokmin makes the executive decision to dine-in instead of joining the line, Junhui cheering when they find a parking spot. All in all, it takes them 20 minutes to actually get their food.

Minghao’s developed a weird sense of pride for In-N-Out. He’s been to the east coast before, and at the insistence of everybody alive, tried Shake Shack to understand the In-N-Out vs Shake Shack debate for himself. In-N-Out won, no contest.

If Minghao’s being honest though, the win wasn’t based on objective taste alone, it was also layered with the subjective taste of memories. Minghao’s made hundreds of them at In-N-Out since he stepped foot in California, each one sweeter than the last. The smell of the grill, the neon lights, the excessive amounts of pink sauce packets, the taste of strawberry milkshakes. Minghao would break his strict diet rules, again and again, for this.

A double-double, animal style fries, a strawberry milkshake and memories with his friends.

Seokmin flicking a fry at Mingyu, Junhui flicking another one back, Mingyu practically inhaling his burger, oblivious to the fact his boyfriend is fighting a war for him.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Minghao hasn’t been to Los Angeles since he visited during his spring break slash graduation trip. It’s been three years since he left; he’s not sure if it’s anticipation or nerves beating hummingbird-fast in him. Everything — disembarking, customs, baggage collection — all of it passes in a blur. And then he’s crossing the gates, and Seokmin had promised to be there, but he’s trying not to look, trying not to get his hopes up.  
  
For the second time, his life is compartmentalized into 46 kilograms of checked baggage, 7 kilograms of a carry on and a personal item. Except this time, he’s not filled with bone-deep loneliness. Fear, yes, and anticipation, definitely, but not loneliness. And this time, the one-way ticket _stays_ a one-way ticket. His job moved Minghao to the LA division. 

Minghao turns his phone on, his screen flashing with multiple WeChat notifications from his family back home and another bunch of messages from Seokmin.

_Look for your name._

He looks amongst the many placards being held up, all of them of in English, until he catches sight of his name in messy calligraphy. Minghao’s isn’t going to cry, no, but his throat feels constricted with an emotion he doesn’t have words for. It goes like this: as he wheels his trolley closer to Seokmin, he sees more of Seokmin, follows the hands holding up the sign, Seokmin’s toned arms, his smiling face in the sea of people.

Minghao collides into his chest with all the force of a meteorite crashing into the planet, Seokmin’s arms tight around his waist, Minghao almost picked up off his feet with the force of it.

“You waited,” Minghao says.  
  
Seokmin pulls away, smiling wide and big and bright and oh, does that smile punch into his gut, better than anything he could ever get through FaceTime.  
  
“Yeah,” Seokmin says, his smile not dimming in the slightest. “I was always planning on it. 

Minghao supposes he dropped his homesickness somewhere across the Pacific Ocean. Allowed it to plunge under the waters, allowed an oyster to swallow it whole, and under the pressure, allowed it to turn into a pearl of wisdom.

Minghao’s home has been Seokmin for years now, a seed that put down roots, that’s unfurled into a beautiful tree, a permanent reminder.

Home is not so far away if home is in Minghao’s arms.

 

 

🌉

 

 

Thanksgiving with Seokmin’s family isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s nothing like Minghao’s expectations. Seokmin gets his temperament from his mother and sister, that much is obvious. The Lees’ overflow with love and Minghao’s not sure why he’s surprised by the realization. Seokmin doesn’t dodge around with who Minghao is either, introduces him as his boyfriend, holds Minghao’s hand even in front of his father. 

To Minghao, who is only out to his mother, it’s all very overwhelming. Coming out to his father is a bridge he will cross when it comes, but right now, openly loved by both Seokmin and his family, he’s never felt so validated in his identity.

The Lees don’t have a guest room, but Seokmin’s bed is bigger than either one of theirs back in SF. It’s almost a shame they’re _not_ using it to fuck. Instead, they’re curled up under the covers together, Minghao absentmindedly drawing patterns on Seokmin’s chest.

“Sometimes,” Minghao says. “I wish I were in a different major. Doing art, or photography, or dance.”

“What’s stopping you?” Seokmin asks, quiet in the night.

 _Debt,_ Minghao wants to say. Not the kind related to money, no, the kind related to money would be much easier.

It’s funny to hear how local students talk about international students. Scratch that, it’s not funny, it incites something else in Minghao. A bitter resentment. A blinding rage. Minghao may come from money there’s a cost to it, a weight that Minghao carries in him as he makes his way to every class. Local students talk about taking as many credits as they can in a semester and graduating on time where Minghao has to talk about tuition going up.

He doesn’t have to worry about running out of money for his expenses but he’s aware of the cost. Hours upon hours of both his parents working hard, Minghao’s care left in the hands of babysitters and after-school centers, his weekends divided between time with his mother or time with his father but never both. Minghao owes them a debt greater than anything financial. And that debt weighs down on more than just his body, it weighs down on his soul, on his conscience, he’ll probably carry it to his grave and even then it will drag him an additional six feet under.

“My parents,” he begins, and Seokmin’s expression shifts. Seokmin knows. Seokmin understands. He carries his own debt to his parents; the cousin to Minghao’s own. First generation immigrant student. He’s trying to fight his way up and out too.  

“When I told my parents I wanted to become a theatre major,” Seokmin begins, voice hushed. “They were disappointed. I was disappointed they were disappointed. Can you believe they imagined me as a nine to five paper pusher?”

Minghao shakes his head, laughing silently. Seokmin belongs on the stage. You could take him off the stage and he would still draw heads.

“It’s about compromise, Hao. Think about it. Plan it. Double majoring is exhausting, and it’s a bit too late for you, maybe, but you could minor. Talk to them, you’d be surprised.”

“I don’t want to burden them. I don’t want them to _worry_ about me.”

“Babe, you’re halfway across the world. They’re gonna worry regardless, but also, they want the best for you.”

Oftentimes, Seokmin holds himself like someone younger than his age. Equal parts mischief and naivete, and it triggers every instinct in Minghao to protect him, or something. There are other times where Minghao feels like the younger one. Curled up like this, facing each other like a pair of parentheses, illuminated by fairy lights, he feels immensely young and simultaneously ageless. Seokmin is right.

“You know how they call LA the city of angels?” Minghao asks.

“Yeah?”

“You’re the brightest angel of them all.”

Seokmin smiles and presses closer, kissing Minghao tenderly, licking into his mouth in a way that makes him breathless. All those months ago when Minghao fantasized about hidden strength, he didn’t know how much better the alternative was. How tender Seokmin can get, pouring his heart into Minghao like he’s got a spare one.

“I know we’re in college,” Seokmin breathes out into the scant space between them. “But I love you.”

Minghao’s breath lodges itself in his throat, refusing to come out. He’s familiar with waiting and wanting, has spent his entire life committed to the idea that he will never have something like this. Spent his adolescence conforming to the idea that his love would always be something lived out in the dark. He never imagined it would see the light. But he has something precious—a beautiful boy with a smile that puts the sun to shame, confessing his love.

He’s not waiting. He’s definitely wanting.

“I love you too,” whispered like a promise. A lifetime. A burden Minghao didn’t even know he was carrying lifts itself off his chest.

Minghao’s had a string of boyfriends and hookups, each one harsher than the last. He used to think he loved them. Reality pales in comparison.

Seokmin isn’t Minghao’s first love. There’s too little heartbreak here, and no violence to be found. Seokmin doesn’t shy away from Minghao’s affections outside safe spaces. He loves Minghao with the same kind of fierce pride that he wears his heart on his sleeve with.

He hopes Seokmin will be his last love.

 

 

🌉

 

 

In his sleep, he dreams of a home.

Minghao doesn’t know which beach he’s at, but the waters are colder than he’s used to. There is a house in the distance. There is a man with him, a smile just as blinding as the sun. There is a dog, a puppy really, squirming in his arms. He holds a hand out to Minghao.

“Let’s go home.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> for everyone who has been far from home. 
> 
> now that reveals are up, if you enjoyed this, drop by my [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/lilting) or [twtr](https://twitter.com/junseokhao) if you’d like to say hi/comment/anything, really. thank you for reading! pls leave a comment if you enjoyed it, i love reading and responding to them!


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